The Summoning
by FoxxFire5
Summary: Devilry is Afoot in London. ‘Evil’ drives a Bentley. A young man bargained with a demon-not Crowley-and the aftermath’s chaotic. At first, Aziraphale and Crowley can handle it, but soon they are caught up in the consequences of the Summoning. R&R please.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: **_Finally_, after having the teaser for this fic up for so long, I've decided to post the real thing. Well, the prologue of it, anyway. ;D I'll be gone Jan 2-12 due to school, so I'm not sure how often I'll be able to update. In the meantime, here is the beginning and let me know what you think! If you like it/are intrigued/don't break bottles over my head, I'll keep going more quickly than I would otherwise. Heh.

As always, no copyright infringement intended, just admiration. ^_^ Aziraphale and Crowley do not belong to me--alas, they belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman.

* * *

**The Summoning**

*********

_Prologue_:

A young man in khaki pants and a blue dress shirt looked as serious and determined as any young man that was holding a Crayola glow-in-the-dark stick of chalk while trying not to sneeze (there was a lot of incense in the room) can. He finished the last of the runes and made sure each seal was in place. The 'character' or sigil of the demon he wanted to conjure was on a piece of paper in his right pocket, written in his own blood.

As far as a 'blood sacrifice' went, the young man had again used his own blood, from a cut in his palm, and sprinkled the blood all around the seals, circles, and triangle. All that was left was to call the demon.

An industrious and careful young man, he made sure he had his glass of holy water nearby should the worst happen, and then he cleared his throat.

"I conjure thee, O Surgat, by all thy names, to come before me ready to obey me in all things. I conjure thee to be submitted in human form, to do and accomplish mine will and all that I command, without harm to me or anyone, as soon as I make known mine intent! Come Surgat, he who opens all locks! Come Surgat, demon of Hell! Come Surgat, for I command thee!"

There was a sizzling flicker of the air, flames, acrid smoke and sulphur and then a being materialized in the center of the innermost summoning circle.

"_Merda _(1)!" The demon exclaimed in a voice that sounded like the rusty hinges of a gate creaking open.

* * *

1. Surgat spoke in Latin, the language he had spoken the last time he was on Earth. The demon's entrance, which had extremely impressed the young man, might have seemed a little less grand to the human had he known '_merda'_ was the basic Latin word for excrement and its pronouncement was akin to an English speaking person announcing 'shit!'

* * *

*********

In a bookshop in Soho, a dusty-looking gentleman looked up from the book he'd been reading and frowned. He had felt something _ripple_.

The angel, Aziraphale, knew that it wasn't the work of the Antichrist Adam Young—the ripple wasn't that upscale. He merely had a feeling that something bad was happening or getting ready to happen. Something Wicked This Way Comes.

Speaking of Wicked, Aziraphale thought, perhaps he ought to call his counterpart Crowley. He looked down at the book he'd been reading. Right after he finished the next chapter.

*********

Two vague, blurry figures—indiscernible to the human eye even if one squinted—were standing next to a hospital bed. They vaguely resembled a middle-aged woman and a young man. Standing off to one side of the room discretely—well, as discretely as a tall skeleton in a black cowl holding a scythe was capable of being—was Death. Next to Death was a shifty looking figure that seemed to _slink_, even when he wasn't moving, and that had on what appeared to be a toga. The body lying in the hospital bed, what everyone in the room was focused on, looked almost as thin as the Reaper.

"You're sure, Mom?" The young man—if he could be called that, because he was currently outside of his body—sounded hesitant.

"Yes, honey." The woman-spirit sounded untroubled. "If I went back to my body, I would still be a quadriplegic. I couldn't hug you or touch you or your brother."

"But…but you'd be _with_ us." The masculine spirit shimmered, in grief or anger. "I can bring you back, Mom!"

The shifty, slinky figure, Surgat, crept up behind the young man, looking decidedly uncomfortable. "I shall wait for thee, Summoner—" The demon cleared his throat. "You've got the power to do what you want here, so I'm going back to the circle. Come by when you're done and we'll…" Surgat paused to glance at the mother, who had cursed him up and down when she first knew what he was and why he was with her son. "Uh, settle up." The demon disappeared.

"Matt, look at me." Everyone in the room looked at the figure on the bed. "I just want to rest. I want…some peace. And life wouldn't be the same without yoga, anyway," she added. "Besides, I wouldn't want you to use a power you got from a _demon_."

"All right," Matt said hastily, not wanting to start _that_ argument again. (1) "I love you."

"I love you too, sweetheart. Take care of Ryan," she said, moving (well, floating) over to the Reaper. "I've kept Death waiting long enough."

TAKE YOUR TIME, Death replied, in a voice that sounded like an ancient bird sharpening its beak on a granite mountain (2). YOU HAVE LITTLE LEFT.

"'Goodbye my love, my life," the woman said. "Goodbye, goodbye.'"

"Really, Mom? _Spartacus_?" (3)

She flickered with what might have been a grin. "I always loved Kirk Douglas in that movie." There was a pause. "Do it now, honey."

The young man slumped—if a spirit was capable of slumping—and all of the monitors in the hospital room flat lined.

"Matt," the woman said quickly.

He waited—if he'd had breath at the moment, it would have been held. Her Last Words were coming.

"Don't forget to feed the cat."

Matt heard Death, who then sounded like the roar of a waterfall at night, ask, YOU HAVE A CAT?

And then he was alone in the room with the corpse of his mother. _Don't forget to feed the cat. _Well. Could have been worse. She could have said, "_Hasta la vista_, bay-bee."

He would have sighed, and then cried, if he had been able to do so. He wasn't. Now he would have to go back and tell his brother about their mother. Still.

"Maybe there isn't any peace in this world, but we must remain true to ourselves," Matt murmured. (4) "Well, now it's time to face the consequences."

He took a last, loving look at what had been his mother and shook his head ruefully. "_Spartacus_," he said.

* * *

1. Although he was twenty-four, an adult, and not in a corporeal form, he had squirmed like a kid when his mother first found out exactly how he had come to be a spirit himself with the power to lead her back to her body. If the reader thinks that Matt seems awfully wimpy for a guy that's made a bargain with a devil, well, then reader should try to imagine telling their own mother that one has sold one's soul. (Or, if the reader's mother happens to be a Satanist or otherwise not bothered by such trifles, imagine telling your grandmother. Or an irate schoolteacher.) (Another comparable instance, so that the reader could imagine what it was like for Matt to tell his mother, would be to imagine telling a certain bibliophilic angel, 'Oh my, I seem to have dripped Blackcurrant fruit spread all over the cover of your _Buggre Alle This Bible_.')

2. After it had limped out of its UFO, of course. (Obligated real-_GO _reference.)

3. "Goodbye my love, my life. Goodbye, goodbye" being a quote said by Varinia from the 1960 _Spartacus _movie.

4. Another loosely paraphrased _Spartacus_ quote.

* * *


	2. Chapter One

*********

_Chapter One_

The telephone was ringing.

Anthony J. Crowley, _the_ Serpent and Flash Bastard, reached for the receiver next to his bed and glanced at the caller ID. It was Aziraphale, his angelic counterpart. (1)

The demon pushed the 'talk' button. "'Lo?"

"Crowley?"

"No, just some bloke who answers this number. Yes 's me, who'd ya expect?" the demon groused, yawning.

Aziraphale continued with the determination of one that has woken Crowley up many times in the past millennia and knows very well it won't get easier. "I hope this isn't an inconvenient time—"

"Bloody well _is_, I'm asleep."

"You're not sleeping now," Aziraphale pointed out. "And since you're awake, I-"

"It's _your fault_ I'm awake."

A patient sigh. "I'm terribly sorry I woke you, dear boy, but I think something bad is going to happen."

"Something bad is _always _happening, angel. We're on Earth."

"I mean, something bad is going to happen _nearby_," the angel clarified.

"Bad things happen everywhere," Crowley snapped, wishing he was still asleep. "Even in London. Especially in London."

"Dash it all, Crowley," Aziraphale said. "I mean something _unnatural_, something occult, something we should pay attention to."

"Some kid's probably trying to summon a hellhound or something. I'm going back to sleep. 'Nite."

"It's only dusk and Do Not Hang Up on Me, Anthony Crowley." (2)

The demon grumbled, but he didn't disconnect the call.

"I just know things are going to go…_wrong_. I'm going to try and pinpoint the source."

"And why'd you call me, again?"

There was Silence. (3)

Crowley stifled a groan. He'd probably hurt the Principality's feelings. Not that he _cared_ if he had; it was just that a hurt angel was an annoying angel, with the sulking, the reproachful glares, the large, injured eyes, etc, etc. "I mean, what's your plan?"

"As I said, I'm going to search for the source. I called—in lieu of the _Arrangement_," he said this deliberately, as if to remind Crowley of it in case he'd forgotten. "To let you know what I'm up to."

"You don't have to call and tell me every move you make or every premonition you get, y'know."

"Yes, well, I have a feeling this will involve some of your people, so I figured you should be duly warned." He'd also thought that perhaps Crowley would like to come along, but that had been, the angel could tell, a foolish notion.

"Happy hunting."

"You'll be staying in, then?" Aziraphale asked casually.

"Yeah," Crowley replied. He knew Aziraphale wouldn't have minded—and might have actually wanted—company, but the Serpent didn't want to get involved. In a situation where he'd be forced to pick between Hell and the Arrangement with Aziraphale, he'd _have_ to pick Hell (especially after the Apocalypse-that-wasn't) if he didn't want to be tortured for eternity. Hence why he didn't want to get drawn in. "I'm going back to sleep."

"I'll see you another time," Aziraphale said, his tone slightly injured.

"Ciao."

"Sweet dre— " the angel started to say, despite the fact he knew demons (and angels) generally didn't dream, but Crowley hung up. Just as well, the angel thought. Crowley wouldn't have welcomed the well-wish, anyway.

* * *

1. Really, looking at the ID was a habit—Crowley didn't actually need to look. It was always Aziraphale. No telemarketers dared call him.

2. He said this the same way that certain mothers say, 'Do Not Use That Tone with Me, Young Man.'

3. Yes, silence with a capital 'S'—no one can do an injured pause quite like an angel.

* * *

*********

A teenager stumbled into his aunt's vacant warehouse (a relic of her dead husband's failed business) and froze. His older brother was lying on the floor in front of several summoning circles, a protective triangle, runes, and lots of complicated looking things drawn in blood. Beyond him, standing in the midst of the innermost circle, was what could only be a demon.

The demon was lithe and thin and, though in human form, still gave off the vibe of 'ambush-predator.'

"Oh god," the boy said.

"Not quite." The Opener of all Locks, Surgat, replied. "And you are…?"

"Ryan," he replied automatically. In a daze, he continued, "You took Matt's soul, didn't you?"

And then he shook himself and ran over to his brother only to realize that he had broken one of the barriers in the process. The blue chalk-line disappeared.

Surgat, rather than letting out a triumphant cackle, pinched the bridge of his nose. Personally, he preferred a straight business transaction, but now the circle was broken and he would be expected to run around and wreak havoc. The One Who Needs No Keys was the sneaky type: he could unlock anything, he was the _real_ King of Thieves, and running around wreaking havoc wasn't his style. A surreptitious poisoning? If necessary. A back-stabbing? Yeah, okay. But open havoc? It was not him.

Besides, he kind of liked the kid Matt (1), who was clever and sneaky, for a human. Well, so much for the original reason he was there—he could honor the bargain later. Surgat's green eyes focused on Ryan.

Ryan's brown eyes focused on the holy water.

* * *

1. Well, he didn't want to disembowel him while laughing at his mortal remains, which, coming from a demon, is rather like liking someone.

* * *

*********

Crowley replaced the phone on its hook and rolled over. He knew what Aziraphale was feeling—he could sense it, too. A sense of foreboding. What he didn't mention was that he could feel the faint trace of another demonic Presence in the area. This was more troubling than a load of presentiments, but the Presence didn't approach his apartment or a certain bookstore, so Crowley didn't worry over much. (1) He went back to pursuing Sloth in the comfort of his own bed. (2)

A short while later, the demon woke up abruptly. (3) Growling at the knowledge that he was awake again and likely to remain so, Crowley sat up.

What had woken him this time?

Then he felt a certain Principality's Presence—which was, to Crowley, a sense of holy light and tea, feeding the ducks, moldy books, chocolate cocoa, dust, skipping through the grass like an idiot, and other fluffy angelic things. The angelic aura was heading in the same direction as the demonic Presence.

Aziraphale was going after the other demon. (4) Blessed angel. Didn't he know that any demon (excluding Crowley himself) would automatically attack the Principality on sight? Crowley sighed. Of course Aziraphale knew that, but he was going to investigate anyway, the daft bugger.

Growling under his breath and pulling off the rubber gloves, the Serpent miracled the Holy water back into storage behind the Mona Lisa sketch. (5) Then he hurried out of his apartment, making sure to give his plants a look that promised painful-leafy-deaths-to-come on the way out. Crowley told himself he was just going to see the demon that was muscling in on his territory. (6) He _certainly_ wasn't going in order to give the angel some back up.

* * *

1. Meaning that he didn't panic, at any rate.

2. With some of the Holy Water Aziraphale had made for him in a spray bottle on his nightstand. He also conjured heavy rubber gloves and put them on before going back to sleep. 'Be Prepared' is the Cub Scout motto, but it is also the motto of demons in general and Crowley in particular, since he was now in Hell's Really-Really-Really-Awful books, also known as the Oh-Shit-This-Is-Worse-Than-Bad books. (Hell might not have any other kind of books than bad ones, but it does have varying degrees of them. Even if Hell had not officially punished Crowley for helping to avert the Apocalypse, that didn't mean they were anywhere close to happy with him.)

3. By which, the author means that the demon jerked awake as one does in the movies, his feet tangled in his covers, and promptly fell out of bed with a thump (and a curse). This was not an unusual way for Crowley to wake up.

4. The angel would be none too pleased with the new Presence—demons were expressively Not Welcome in Aziraphale's opinion—excluding Crowley, of course, who the angel considered less like a demon and more like a friend, really.

5. He wasn't going to carry it _with_ him for Something's sake, even if he was heading toward another demon. What if it _spilled_?

6. Demons are very territorial, after all. The hellhounds especially. One should feel sorry for the janitors of Hell, who have to cope with all the territory marking. Hellhound urine is extremely hard to clean up and it causes set in stains like _anything_.

* * *

*********

Principality Aziraphale was following the faint trace of magic and demon like a hound dog on a scent. (1) Bystanders, had they paid any attention to him (which they didn't, because he didn't want them to), would have labeled him merely as an absent-minded wanderer, instead of a man-shaped being on a mission. Winding through London, he concentrated as hard as he could on the thin thread of demonic aura. And then his job got easier; the demonic Presence intensified.

"Oh dear," the angel muttered. Checking to see that no one was around, he spread out his wings and flew (literally) toward the source.

The demon was in a warehouse. Bother, Aziraphale thought. Nothing good _ever_ happened in warehouses—it was practically a Law of Nature.

As if to prove the point, a shriek of anger and pain came from inside the building and shattered all the windows.

Aziraphale hovered in place a moment to avoid being hit by the shards of glass. He could feel a human nearby as well as the demon. Squaring himself, the angel flew inside, prepared to defend the human and subdue the demon, sans flaming sword and all.

"Just what is going on in here?" Aziraphale asked loudly as he entered through one of the broken windows (2). As soon as he was inside, he saw a broken summoning circle, a young man limp on the floor, and a spilled glass of holy water. He also sensed that another human had just run away, but Aziraphale had no time to observe anything further because he was suddenly thrown from the air.

After landing painfully, the Principality strengthened his Presence, which made his attacker fall back. Meanwhile, Aziraphale rose to his feet and eyed the tall, skinny, and enraged being. The demon's left arm was melted away and his torso was covered in burns. He winced in sympathy, thinking of his counterpart Crowley. The injuries had no doubt been the cause of the scream, but they did not deter the demon from lashing out again.

Quickly, Aziraphale caught the demon's right arm and threw him into the wall. Holding up his hand, the angel used some of his Power to hold the demon in place. "What _happened_?" he asked again.

"Kid broke…c-circle…didn't know…who he wasss," the demon hissed, not a Serpentine hiss like Crowley's, but a hiss of pain. He spoke more like he was talking to himself than Aziraphale and his glowing green eyes were unfocused. "C-Couldn't touch…family."

The demon writhed in Aziraphale's imposed grasp, in even _more_ agony from the angelic Presence, and he used what was left of his own to break free. Instantly he lunged forward and, after feinting, twisted unnaturally to latch on to the angel's wings.

Surgat, in terrible agony from the small splash of holy water he'd caught on the arm, was basically beyond coherent thought. (3)

* * *

1. Though really, if the angel was going to be a working dog, he probably would've been a therapy dog or a seeing-eye dog.

2. As a battle cry, it admittedly needed some work.

3. If he had any thoughts at all, they were reminiscent of Arnold Schwarzenegger's robotic character in the first Terminator movie. Target: _Angel_. Mission: _Terminate_.

* * *

*********

A. J. Crowley followed his counterpart in a manner that was slightly faster than walking but was certainly no where near hurried. All the same, when he came to the broken-windowed warehouse, he instantly burst open the doors, making an impressive, looming figure with his claws at the ready. It was a dramatic, flashy entrance (1), but no one noticed.

Aziraphale, his wings out, was kneeling over an unconscious human, pouring healing power into him. Nearby was a stain on the floor. It was still bubbling.

That would be the demon, then. Crowley swallowed as he passed the puddle, moving next to the angel who, on closer inspection, was a bit scratched up.

"What happened?" Crowley asked.

The angel took his hands off the young man with a deep sigh.

"What?" And then the demon took another look at the boy: he was breathing, but his skin was abnormally pale and he felt…unnatural.

"I can't heal him."

"What's wrong with him?"

"It isn't an injury. His soul…seems to be gone."

"Gone?" Crowley crossed his arms. "Demons don't actually _devour_ souls, y'know," he said wryly.

"I know. I think this young man is trapped outside of his body." Aziraphale stood, his wings slightly slumped. "I can't help him."

"What happened with—" Crowley gestured at the stain.

"When I arrived, the demon was already injured, his arm and side burnt. I believe he was discorporating, but slowly. The boy was already on the floor. There was another human here—the one that injured the demon, I'd wager—but whomever it was ran away. He," Aziraphale gestured toward the puddle of melted demon, "attacked me, but I think it was out of agony rather than actual rancor. I tried to talk to him, but he was beyond that, so finally I—I made things a little quicker for him.".

Crowley shook his head—only an angel like Aziraphale would grant a demon mercy. "You hurt?" He pointed toward a white wing speckled with blood.

The Principality shook his head. "He wasn't strong enough to do much damage. They'll heal soon enough on their own." Aziraphale glanced at Crowley. "You didn't happen to recognize the Presence?"

"No."

Sirens wailed in the distance.

"C'mon, angel." Crowley grabbed his arm and pulled him. "We've got to go."

Both rattled, neither angel nor demon noticed the feathers on the floor.

* * *

1. He wasn't called the Flash Bastard for nothing. Crowley figured if you're going to make an entrance at a place where you might be put in an uncomfortable situation (such as choosing between an Arrangement and a devilish coworker), you might as well enter _impressively_.

* * *

*********

The air inside of the warehouse shimmered and suddenly, where there had been nothing but dust mites, there was the blurry figure of a young man.

"Surgat, I'm back…" Matt trailed off.

The warehouse was empty.

Completely empty, not counting his body (still lying where he left it) the circles, a nasty stain on the floor, the spilled holy water, and a couple of feathers.

Sirens were shrieking nearby.

"Oh," Matt said.

The circle had been broken and Surgat had been freed. Worse still—the cup that had the holy water in it was overturned. What had happened? How was he supposed to get back into his body without the demon's help? And what was that nasty stain on the floor?

On second thought, he really, _really_ didn't want to know, in case it was what he thought it was.

"Surgat?" Matt called.

Nothing.

And then a faint scuffle of shoes. The spirit turned to see his younger brother, looking terrified, with either holy water or urine staining the front of his jeans.

"Ryan?" Matt asked.

Not answering and, in fact, not hearing him, Ryan ran over to the grimoire and scooped it up. Then he did something peculiar: he knelt and picked up all the feathers off the ground before he crouched near Matt's body.

"I called an ambulance," Ryan whispered. "I-I have to go, but I'll fix this, I promise."

Matt wasn't sure that spirits could actually shout, but he tried to do so at the top of his nonexistent spirit lungs. "Whatever you're thinking, don't do it, you idiot! You don't know what you're getting into!"

Ryan turned and ran out of the warehouse, book and feathers clutched close to his chest.

Matt was once again alone with a body, except that this time it was his own.

And then the paramedics came.

"He has a weak pulse. Is he breathing?"

"Barely. His pupils aren't responding… What the hell went on in here?" The male paramedic gestured to the circles and blood and mess.

The woman shook her head. "Some stupid kid tried to raise the dead or something. Probably scared himself into having a heart attack."

"I summoned a demon, actually." Matt said, not expecting them to hear him.

They didn't.

Matt glumly watched the pair load his body onto a stretcher and cart it away. It was unnerving, seeing himself slung around like a lump of meat. He tried to follow his body, but found that he was rooted to the warehouse. With no where else to go, he drifted back inside.

"This isn't fair!" He tried to kick the overturned cup like a poltergeist, but his foot went through it, not improving his mood. "Surgat, we had a _deal_, damn it! And it wasn't that I became Casper the fucking ghost!" He paused. "Can't _anyone_ hear me?"

I CAN.

"Geez, you scared me."

I GET THAT A LOT. Death replied, his voice echoing like the inside of an open tomb.

"I'm going to die now?"

NO.

Matt's spirit flickered, uncertain. "Then what?"

Death gave the impression of shrugging a shoulder although he didn't actually move. YOU WAIT.

"Wait for what?"

Another almost-shrug.

"You're the Grim Reaper, right? You've got to have jurisdiction over souls. Can't you put me back?"

MY…'JURISDICTION' IS OVER THE DEAD

"I'm not attached to my body right now," Matt replied impatiently.

NO. YOU ARE HAVING AN OUT OF BODY EXPERIENCE.

If he didn't know better, Matt would have thought Death was attempting to make a joke. Of course, it could have been the constant grin. "So since my body's not dead yet, you can't help me?"

THAT'S RIGHT.

"And I just wait around and hope something happens?"

BASICALLY.

"Why are you here, anyway?"

I AM EVERYWHERE. A pause. AND YOUR SCREAMING WAS GETTING IRRITATING. I CAN HEAR SOULS, YOU KNOW.

"If you're everywhere, does that mean you can stay here and still be, well, reaping souls at the same time?"

YES.

"And can you materialize objects like Surgat could?"

…YES.

"Okay. Well. Wanna play cards?"

THERE IS NOTHING AT STAKE. THERE WOULD NOT BE A POINT.

"Just for fun."

The blue-lights in the sockets that passed for Death's eyes stared at him.

"It'll stop me from screaming," Matt said.

…VERY WELL.

"What game d'you want to play? Poker? Rummy? Hearts?"

I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN FOND OF 'GO FISH.'


	3. Chapter Two

**Author's Note: **I'm back from my residency. And I am tiiiiired. I thought you guys deserved the next chapter though. :3

Hope you like it. 3 R+rs are always appreciated. ^-^

* * *

*********

**_Chapter Two_**

_The Next Evening_

An angel and a demon sat in the back of the angel's dusty bookshop in Soho, surrounded by bottles of alcohol. This was not an unusual occurrence. (1)

The angel, Aziraphale, reached for one of the half full wine bottles and knocked several empty ones off the table. "Oops," he said. "Crowley—"

Crowley, the demon, topped off the angel's glass before he could ask for the bottle.

Aziraphale beamed at him. (2) "Ta', m'dear."

"So. So I 'uz sayin'…Um…" The demon paused thoughtfully, trying to remember what he _was_ saying.

"'Bout the demon that I smited. Er, smote." Aziraphale made a wiggling motion in the air with his hand that he intended to indicate the act of smiting that actually looked like he was attempting to direct air traffic.

"'S smited," Crowley said.

"Smote."

"Smited.

"Smote."

"Dun' matter. So that demon, his name's Surgat, and his spesssia-spesssi—" The demon's tongue, as inebriated as the rest of him, couldn't quite stop hissing on the word. "_Partic'lar_ power ista open anything, an' I mean _anything_. Locked your keys inna car? He's who you call. Needta get into or outta anywhere? Surgat's your demon." Crowley laughed shortly in the manner of one who doesn't really think anything is funny. "Into or out of _anywhere_."

"Obviol-obvi—clearly he helped the boy outta 'is body..." Aziraphale said. "Bu' why?"

Crowley shrugged, refilled his own glass, and tried to gather the unraveling threads of his narrative. "I got it second 'and, from Dagon's secretary (3). All I know is the kid, name 'a Matt, made some kinda deal with Surgat. He got the power to get outta 'is body."

Aziraphale opened his mouth.

Crowley hurried on to avoid an interruption. "Then spirit-Kid goes somewhere, an' Surgat goes t' the circle t' wait, right?"

"I dunno," the angel replied truthfully. "_You're_ tellin' the story."

Crowley rolled his eyes behind his shades. "'S figure of what's-it. Speech. Any way, some other human comes an' spills holy water."

"Must've been fam'ly," Aziraphale muttered. "Tha's what Surgat said. Somethin' 'bout a child." The angel furrowed his brows in effort to remember. "That he hadn't known 'im, an' he couldn't touch fam'ly."

Crowley nodded. "That's your usual clause inna pact made by smarter humans. So a demon can't hurt the summ'ner's kin. That'd explain things. Surgat might not be huge, but he's devious as anythin'. Only way it makes sense he got Off-ed 's if he couldn't fight back."

"I have somethin' to tell you," Aziraphale began.

"Hol' on," Crowley said, pouring himself another drink and getting at least a smidgen of liquid in his glass. "'M not finished. This is where it gets interessssting."

Aziraphale, who had been sulking upon being interrupted, saw his counterpart's expression and snapped back to attention.

"The summ'ner, Matt, he's got a regl'lar celebrity in 'is blood."

"Inside 'is act'al blood?" The angel asked doubtfully.

"No, I mean 'is ances'ry. Bloodlines an' whatnot. So guess who 'e's descended from?"

Aziraphale knitted his brows and Crowley realized the Principality really would try and answer his question, so he hurriedly said, "Ti-res-iasss." He prounounced the name carefully since his tongue was still numb.

The angel sat down his wineglass and sobered up a little. "But…though Tiresias hadda Gift, Upstairs made certain he, er, was a tad confused. Poor thing thought he was a woman for seven years." (4)

The demon likewise sobered up to some extent. "The kid's one of his descendants, and he might no' be a prophet, but he's a... A thing. Wossname. Sees stuff. Like Dead people." Crowley paused. "A _psychic_. A real one."

"But Heaven and Hell—"

"Mess up their channels. I know." Crowley continued doggedly, "Or they mess 'em up themselves. But this Matt, he's smart, like Nutter smart, (5) an' he dun' go crazy. So he has the ancestry an' comes across one of few working grimoires. An' _knows what it is_. So he calls Surgat an' gets all diabolical on the demon."

"…" Aziraphale looked at Crowley. "Is that…is that some kind of insinu—insininiu—innuendo?"

"…" Crowley looked at Aziraphale. "No. I just mean he was clever enough to use his own blood inna pact and to—get this—get Surgat to write up the details and _sign_ 'em. Surgat was bound to do whatever the kid stip'lated. It was only after everythin' he asked for was done that Matt would forfeit his soul."

"Hmm," Aziraphale replied. Generally demons did not adhere to agreements they made with humans—they only would do so as a last resort, if it was the _only_ possible way to get the soul. Matt had taken wise precautions, though they hadn't helped him any. "I don't s'ppose there's some sort of rule that if they sell their soul for a noble cause, they get a shot at redemption?"

"Nope."

"Thought not," Aziraphale said.

"What kind of noble cause anyway? Gen'rally, a human wants to do somethin' noble, they don't ask for a demon's help."

"Yes, but… I got a good feeling from him."

"What, while he was lying there mos'ly dead?"

"Yes."

Crowley shook his head and then decided he wasn't ever going to shake it again because the room took a minute longer to stop shaking than his head did. "What were you goin' to say?"

"I talked to Raphael, asked him 'bout a way to get the soul back inna body. He's not supposed to interfere direc'ly with a soul, so he couldn't help. I'll look in my books."

There was silence a moment. Aziraphale cleared his throat. "I checked on him inna hospital."

"Tha's just bloody smart—what if someone Down There was watchin' the body and they _saw_ you? You could've been followed—they could know where your shop is!"

"_You_ know where my shop is."

"I'm ssserious Aziraphale!"

"Thanks for worryin'—" The angel began.

Crowley scowled. "I'm not—"

Aziraphale continued, "But no one followed me. Matt... His parents weren't there. He was 'lone. Still inna coma. None of the doctors know what to make of it."

"Wasn't your fault."

"What'd he ask for, Crowley? What'd he get in return?"

"I don't know."

They drank in silence for awhile.

"What'd be worth riskin' your soul?" Aziraphale slurred into the bottom of his glass.

"Humans seem to think 'most anything is. Money, sex, fame, rock-n-roll, shiny things, that sort of stuff."

"Love," Aziraphale said decidedly. "Bet it was love."

"You _would_ say that, being soppy and all."

"'M not soppy."

"You are. Look it up inna dictionary, they got a picture of you."

"Well, you're…" Aziraphale crinkled his nose and looked at Crowley and his expensive suit and shiny shoes and said the first word he could think of (he thought of it because it nearly rhymed). "Foppish."

Crowley grinned. "That's sorta a compliment to me."

Aziraphale decided to ignore him and materialized another bottle of some excellent 1898 _Sauvignon Blanc_. He poured some in both their glasses, Crowley already having wished them clean.

The demon raised his glass. "To the sop."

"Really," Aziraphale replied, radiating Disapproval.

"To both of usss, then, the sop _and_ the fop."

The angel laughed despite himself.

**

* * *

**

1. Nor was it the tagline for a joke.

2. He was an emotional drunk. Either he was rather happy or rather morose. Of course, the emotions could switch mid splurge. The one thing that remained consistent was that he also tended to be, in Crowley's opinion, an _interruptive_ drunk.

3. The whole 'Summoning gone Wrong' thing made a good tawdry headline, especially in Hell.

4. Mythology-nerd inside joke. Tiresias was a blind poet mentioned often in Greek myths that was blinded by the gods and, to make up for it, was given the abillity to see the future. He once kicked a pair of snakes that were copulating and for some reason this angered Hera, Queen of the Heavens, and so she turned Tiresias into a woman. Legend has it he stayed that way for seven years when he came across another pair of snakes (kinda ironic it was snakes, hm?) having at it and this time he—she, that is—left them alone. So the myth states that Hera then turned Tiresias back into a man.

5. _Agnes_ Nutter smart, not crazy person smart, by the way.

_

* * *

_

*********

_Later, In the Wee Hours of the Morning_

Alexandra 'Alex' McDermott was a girl with a past (1). To be fair, she honestly _was_ a girl with a past (everyone has one, really) in the sense that hers had been more complicated than some.

She was not a firm believer in anything, except maybe the principles of cruelty and kindness. Cruelty was what she had known with her 'real' family, the family she had legally been declared independent from at age 14. Kindness was what she had known with the Rolands. Although technically an adult, Alex had only been declared independent from her parents in order to get away from them and so she could stay with the Rolands without going into foster care or going through a long adoption process. Even so, Marianne Roland was her mother figure and Matt Roland was the older brother she'd always wanted. Until recently, Alex had thought she cared for Ryan Roland like a brother, too, but it wasn't so. Not anymore.

Like all young teenagers are wont to do, she had just become aware of the two lumps on her chest and, nervously, of the lumps in Ryan's pants. For the first time, Alex was glad she was a refuge in the Roland family and not an official member.

Not that she'd admit any of that. It would ruin her image (a constantly changing thing). She was trying what she called Punk-Goth Chick at the moment, and had taken to wearing dark clothes with safety pins in odd places and more fishnet than most people would advise. Alex overdid the look because she was a natural blonde with a rosy complexion and big blue eyes: she wanted to counter her inherent 'cheerleader' vibe. Hence she wore heavy mascara, foundation at least two shades too light, purple lipstick and eye shadow, and had black streaks in her hair. All of this was in addition to the fishnet top over which she wore a shirt that loudly proclaimed 'BITE ME' with a picture of a vampire on it, the jeans covered with zippers and chains, the heavy jewelry, and the boots laden with buckles.

Marianne had supported Alex's 'artistic exploration of self,' but then she'd been in the skiing accident that had left her paraplegic and comatose. Her older sister Margot, who lived in London, England, (2) had been granted sole custody of Ryan and (unofficially) Alex. Matt was old enough he didn't need to be worried about, though he went from the US to England to live with them, too.

To come back to the point, Alex didn't understand Ryan's belief in supernatural entities. She'd never believed in anything like that, (3) though she had gone along with the guys when they planned to summon a mystical creature to cure their mother. And then it had supposedly worked.

Not telling his brother or Alex, Matt had apparently performed the summoning at Margot's warehouse. The paramedics found Matt in a coma, though Ryan had been there first. Ryan had told Alex he'd discovered the grimoire missing and rode his bike to the warehouse and walked in to find his brother on the floor and a demon in the circle. He'd broken the circle and naturally grabbed the holy water, but, to his embarrassment, spilled it. And then he ran. It was almost an hour before Ryan went back and called for help. He was angry at himself for running—he hadn't told Alex that, but she knew—and he was determined to re-summon the demon, to force it fix Matt. Ryan had found some feathers that he was _sure_ had come from its wings, and he said that having the feathers was _majorly_ important.

Alex had listened, occasionally stifling the urge to roll her eyes, and then she'd silently helped Ryan prepare for the ritual. Good thing Margot was a hospital nurse who worked night shift—she slept almost all day and was away most of the night. They prepared for the summoning in the basement after Margot left.

All in all, Alex couldn't quite believe she was standing in the dark with a bunch of incense and candles lit while Ryan chanted weird things he read out of a moldy book. At least, she thought, her outfit fit right in. Ryan, on the other hand, looked a little ridiculous in his jeans, t-shirt, and grimy sneakers.

And then, after Ryan had cut his hand, drawn squiggly things on the feathers with his blood, and finished the binding and sealing rituals, there was a ripping sound.

The teenagers simultaneously gasped when there was a bright flash of light. A figure materialized in the center circle, glowing so much it seemed to be made out of pure radiance, and then it collapsed.

Alex, who had started the process of readjusting her belief system, could have sworn she heard the entity mutter 'oh dear,' before it dropped to the floor and stopped shimmering so brightly.

* * *

1. Well, this was how she characterized herself in the many 1940s-esque dramas she starred in inside her head.

2. Who naturally was plain and normal in contrast to what her parents had thought was a romantic, exciting sounding name.

3. Not even when she had gone through her Moon-Goddess-Worshipping-Hippy phase.

* * *

*********

Aziraphale had a headache. To be more precise, he had a whole body ache. It seemed as though he was in a deep fog and he couldn't move. Even his thinking process was slowed and it took him a moment before he was coherent enough to wonder what on Earth had happened and why, precisely, did his eyelids feel so heavy? The angel had no idea where he was, what had happened, or how long he had been unconscious. It was, needless to say, an uncomfortable situation.

Abruptly his hearing returned and he could discern people talking. They were young people. A boy and a girl. Aziraphale listened, though he couldn't yet open his eyes. Or move.

"You _killed_ him," the girl said.

"I did not. And it isn't a him." The boy sounded nervous. Nervous and guilty.

"Are you sure you did it right?" the girl asked. "He really looks dead."

"He isn't dead," the boy replied, sounding unsure, himself. "I don't think they _can_ die. Anyway, even if he—_it_—is dead, it _deserves_ it."

"_He_ doesn't look like a—"

"Well, he is."

"How do you know for sure?"

"I just do."

"Oh that's deep, Ryan," the girl said. Aziraphale could tell she rolled her eyes. (1) "Really deep. You sure this is the right one? Is that what he looked like before?"

Aziraphale concentrated on getting his wits about him. It was difficult. He'd been roaring-drunk, passed-out-pissed, and nearly-pee-one's-trousers-sloshed before, but he'd never felt so disjointed. Rattled. Shaken _and_ Stirred.

"No, he—" The boy, Ryan, stopped mid sentence. "Shut up, he's awake!"

Aziraphale's eyes opened. "Mnhf?" he asked.

"Arise, I command thee!" Ryan decreed, in a forceful manner that might have been convincing if his voice hadn't squeaked.

The girl let out a high, nervous giggle.

"Arise, I said! I have summoned thee here—"

"Summoned? Me?" Aziraphale asked, blinking as he sat up. "Whatever for?"

The Principality took his first good look around. He was in a chilly, dark sort of place—a basement?—in the middle of a circle of runes. Inside the rune-circle was another a circle of chalk that had lots of squiggly writings around it. Around the rims of both of them there were small bronze disks with seals embossed on the tops. The set up would have been impressive and one of the rare instances a human had properly prepared for a summoning, except that it was all arranged as if he were a demon.

The culprits were two young teenagers who stood in their own protective circle staring at him. Behind their circle was a triangle that had a bench in it with a stained silk bathrobe draped on top. It was most probably supposed to be a makeshift altar. The altar held candles, incense burners, and two feathers. The boy Ryan held a grimoire in the crook of his arm and something white clenched in his free hand. He was bony without being overly skinny—one of those people that jutted out, all knees and elbows. The girl had long, blonde hair streaked with black pulled into a high ponytail, metal chains and buckles everywhere, and more makeup than Aziraphale felt was seemly at her tender age.

"I'll get to that," Ryan said sulkily. "Like I was saying, I have summoned thee here to do my bidding. To gather your strength, I offer thee the blood of a pure maiden."

"What?" Aziraphale was absolutely flabbergasted.

"A virgin," Ryan clarified. "You can have some virgin blood to strengthen your dark powers."

Aziraphale opened his mouth and then closed it. Where, precisely, had this young man gotten his ideas on how to handle a demon summoning? More to the point, how had he succeeded? And _two_ Summonings occurring in London so close together? The angel was beginning to get a rather unnerving sinking sensation.

"If I die," the girl said. "I will _haunt_ your ass, Ry."

"Alex, be quiet." Ryan whispered, and then added, louder, "But not _all_ of her blood, just a drink or two," he clarified. The look the boy was giving him was positively poisonous. "I've seen what your kind can do."

Aziraphale frowned. "I am certainly not interested in any blo—"

"Stop trying to trick us!" Ryan yelled. "I _know_ what you are; I _know_ you're evil."

"I am not a demon," Aziraphale said, hoping this was a strange dream, even though he'd never had one.

"Are too."

"Am _not_—" The angel shook his head to clear it. How, pray tell, had he gone from tidying up his shop in the aftermath of a Crowley-visit to arguing with a teenager in an immature fashion? "You are mistaken, young man. I am not a demon. In fact, one could say I am the direct _opposite_ of a demon."

"That's just what a demon would say," Ryan shot back.

Aziraphale stood and reminded himself that patience was an inherent angelic trait. "I'll prove it. You made these circles to trap all things demonic, correct?"

Alex nodded and Ryan gave her a dirty look.

The angel stepped out of the circles. He was not thrown writhing back to the ground.

"How—how did you…?" Ryan crouched down and opened the grimoire, flipping through the pages frantically.

"Your wards are against demons. As I stated previously, I am not a demon and thus they do not restrict me."

"You're not a… but you have to be! Otherwise the spell wouldn't work. I've got these…" Ryan held up the feather in his hand. "I could feel they were different, special, so if you're not a demon, then—then you'd have to be…an angel."

"We summoned an angel?" Alex asked. "_Seriously_? That's so cool."

Oh dear. Aziraphale's eyes fell on the blood-bound feathers on the altar and the one in the boy's hand. He needed to get them back; he couldn't perform miracles on the being that had them. "This has all been a misunderstanding, but that's quite all right, I'll just be taking the feathers and leaving—"

"You're not going anywhere until my brother is better."

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. "Your brother...his name wouldn't happen to be Matt?"

Ryan's eyes narrowed. "Yeah."

The angel nodded sympathetically. "You were trying to summon the demon who left him in his present state." He must have lost the feathers when Surgat attacked him and the boy had gone back to the scene and found them.

"Yeah. I guess you're not who Matt summoned, but I still need you to fix him."

"I really am sorry," Aziraphale said gently. "But I've already tried to heal him and I am entirely unable to help. I cannot put his soul back into his body."

Ryan smiled. It was an unsettling smile; the smile of a human who had realized he had an angel right where he wanted him. "I didn't summon you the right way, but I still have your feathers, and they're what have the power. I wrote my name on your feathers and that's blood binding magic. Basically, you belong to me and you've got to do what I say."

In different circumstances, Aziraphale might have rolled his eyes. He 'belonged to him,' indeed. Talk about overstating things.

The problem was, on a very basic level, the boy was right. The angel regarded him with the same sort of chagrined dismay he usually used on telemarketers, couples that enthusiastically snogged in public, and people who came into his shop.

"Knock it off, Ryan," Alex said, sounding uncomfortable. "Just make your three wishes or whatever and let him go."

"I am not a jinn," Aziraphale said in a semi-offended tone. "I do not grant wishes, I perform miracles."

"The way I see it," Ryan replied, looking like the cat that got the canary, the cream, and a side order of tuna. "I get a favor for each of the two feathers on the altar. This one," he waved the one he had in his hand, "is what I bound you with. So after you do two things for me, I give you the last feather and you're free."

Alex shook her head. "That doesn't make sense. He's an angel. He's got like phenomenal cosmic powers. (2) Why would he have to do what you say?"

"He _is_ powerful."

"I—" Aziraphale began, but the boy went on, ignoring him.

"And so are his feathers. As long as I've got them, I'm immune to his magic and he has to do what I say."

Alex glanced at Aziraphale. "He's a freaking _angel_, Ryan. Are you sure you want to do this? You'll probably get zapped by lightening or something."

"I'm doing it for _Matt_."

"I know," she said softly. "But I still think maybe you should let him go. It's not _his_ fault Matt's in a coma."

The two teens continued bickering.

"Excuse my intrusion," Aziraphale began after waiting politely for several minutes.

"Keep your panties on a second, we're talking," Ryan snapped.

The angel looked at him. "Beg pardon?"

"It's not 'panties' here, Ryan."

"It's panties everywhere. Panties are universal."

Not true," Alex said. "It's knickers. Isn't it?" She looked at Aziraphale, who did indeed have a British accent, for confirmation.

"Beg pardon?" he repeated.

"I'll show you." It was at that point that Alex pulled down the top of her trousers and pulled out the top strap of a rather lacy undergarment. "Do you call these knickers, here?"

The angel nodded mutely. What sort of situation had he gotten into? He had been Summoned by children, one-upped by a boy whose voice had just changed, and had been shown under-things. If Crowley knew of his situation, he'd never let him hear the end of it. _Ever_.

"Pink? With lace?" Ryan asked with astonishment.

Alex yanked her trousers back up and shot him a glare. "So what if they are? I wasn't showing them to you, anyway, I was showing them to the angel. He's a gentleman. He doesn't make remarks about ladies' underclothes." She was affecting a lofty tone that would have worked better had she not been in ripped up, safety-pinned together jeans and a top that instructed people to sink their teeth into her.

"Neither do I—_you're_ not a lady."

"Screw you," she said.

"Oh yeah? Sod off. That's how they say that here," Ryan countered.

"Prick."

"Whore."

Aziraphale, who had not realized this was friendly, normal banter, was surprised when they laughed and smiled at each other.

"Kids," an unfamiliar voice drifted down from upstairs. "I just got home from a _horrid_ shift so if you want me to take you to school before I go to sleep; I suggest you get up here."

Alex and Ryan looked at each other.

"We can't just leave him," Alex said.

"You could give me back the feathers," Aziraphale said softly. "I have already done everything in my Power to help Matt."

Ryan shook his head. "I don't believe you. There _has_ to be something else you can do or something you didn't try."

"Are we just going to lock him down here? Would that even work?" Alex asked.

"He can go home or wherever while we're in school. But don't forget—"

"You have my feathers and can call me with them or find me with them at any time. Yes, my boy, I know," Aziraphale finished.

Ryan nodded and put the feather he held in his pocket. Then he snatched the other two off the altar and darted up the steps.

Alex hesitated. "You're really an angel?"

"Yes."

"And you already tried to help Matt?

"Yes."

She stared at him for a long minute. "I believe you."

"You seem to be close, the two of you," Aziraphale said easily.

"He's my best friend." She crossed her arms at the slight raising of an eyebrow. "He's a good guy; he just wants to help his brother."

"I'm sure."

She was silent a minute longer and he calmly held her gaze until she almost squirmed with guilt (3). "See you later!" she said bounding up the steps.

Aziraphale sighed and miracled himself back to the bookshop.

* * *

1. The angel was good at knowing when eyes were rolled even when he couldn't see them, thanks to Crowley.

2. Like Jafar when he turned into a genie at the end of the first _Aladdin_ movie.

3. Angels are good at making people feel guilt—and he hadn't even given her his lethal 'puppy-eyes' expression.

* * *


	4. Chapter Three

**Author's Note:** Sorry it took so long to update this, life is crazy. Namely 3rd semester project crazy. 0_o Long story. That and unpacking. And life. xD But here it is! Hope you like. Still not intending copyright infringement! _Good Omens_ was written by Pratchett and Gaiman, thus they own Azi and Crow. I only own my original characters, which are the ones you don't recognize, of course. Oh, that and the plot, such as it is. xD

Enjoy! And please review? It'd be lovely if you would. ^_^

* * *

_Chapter Three_

A door clanged open with the sound of jingling bells as someone yelled, "Oi!"

Immediately, Aziraphale did something he didn't usually do: he woke up.

And then he regretted doing so. As an angel—with the ability to instantly sober up—he didn't get hangovers, but even if he had, he imagined the feeling he currently possessed was much worse. The aftermath of being Summoned seemed just as pleasant as getting kicked in the head by an angry mule wearing spiked horseshoes.

"Angel! Get out here," the annoyed voice—one Anthony J. Crowley—continued.

Aziraphale rose from the couch with groans (one from him and one from the ancient settee), smoothed his hair and clothes, and left the back room. "Hello Crowley. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

The demon gave him a peculiar look over his shades. "You wanted to shop computers, remember?"

The angel blinked. Oh. That was right—his computer had been acting up for ages and after tallying account amounts carefully and parting with a few _Biggles_', he had decided to purchase a new one. After discussing business the other night, he had invited Crowley to come shopping with him. (The demon was much more knowledgeable about newfangled gadgetry, after all.) Of course, they'd both been less than sober at the time, and Crowley had first refused, but Aziraphale had whined (drunkenly and rather embarrassingly, he now recalled) and the demon had (drunkenly and rather reluctantly) given in. Of course, the Principality _could_ have miracled a new one into existence, but he wanted to do things the human way.

"Oh, right. Of course," Aziraphale said.

"Did something happen?" Crowley stared long and hard at the angel through his shades as Aziraphale did his best to smile and shrug. "I had…an odd feeling last night, like something, well, unpleasant was happening. I woke up with a start and everything."

"You probably just had a nightmare," the Principality replied, ignoring Crowley's scornful look. "Let's go on and go, then."

Frowning, the Serpent gave him a look that plainly said, 'I know there's _something_ up, but if you want to play things that way then fine, though I will find out eventually.'

"Thank you, my dear," Aziraphale said when they got in the car, sincerely grateful to his counterpart for taking him and for not asking more questions.

"So what're you looking for? A desktop? Notebook? Tablet?"

"I have a perfectly suitable desk already and if I wanted to use a hand-written ledger to keep my accounts I wouldn't have asked you to take me to look for another computer."

Crowley just kept staring at Aziraphale until the angel looked out the window. Honestly, that demon, suggesting he use a notebook or a writing tablet instead of a computer.

"Should've gotten pissed first," Crowley muttered.

In response, Aziraphale merely humph-ed. At least the car ride over would give him some time to think—though probably not that much time, what with Crowley behind the wheel.

* * *

Jeannette Acton worked in a computer store and she liked watching reruns of the American television program _MacGyver._ If one considered these two details, it might have made the fact that she had built a homemade bomb out of laptop parts, office supplies, and nitro purchased from the internet a little less surprising. The people in the store obviously didn't know she watched the show because when she came out from behind the sales counter with the bomb strapped around her waist like some kind of exotic belt, they were all surprised. Shocked, even.

"Don't move," Jeannette ordered.

The few people in the room—two men that may or may not have been a couple, a middle-aged man and woman that were certainly a couple, and a young teen—stared at her. Jeannette did not look threatening herself, being somewhat short and nondescript, but the thing around her waist looked exactly like it came off the set of an action movie or perhaps one of those twisted horror shows where the villain thought it was amusing to strap bombs to people and put the key to get the bomb off inside of another person. (As if having an explosive device strapped to one's neck wasn't bad enough.)

"Pardon?" one of the men—a frumpily dressed person of undeterminable age that radiated 'librarian'—asked.

"I said, nobody move!" Jeanette watched television; she knew the sort of thing to say.

"I _told_ you to let me take care of it," the man in dark glasses and expensive clothes hissed at his bookish companion. "But _no_, you had to do it the 'regular' way and go to a shop."

Frowning, Jeanette continued, "I'm not going to hurt anyone as long as you do what I say."

"How d' we _know_ it's a real bomb?" the teenager asked. "You'd 'afta set it off ter prove it, and that'd ruin it."

Jeanette looked stymied until the computer sales representative reached in her pocket, pulled out a small, aged pistol, and shot the ceiling. A tile fell. (1) "You can tell _that's_ real, can't you?"

The teen and the married couple dropped to the floor, but the man in shades and his companion were both still standing.

"Aziraphale," sunglasses-guy said in an oddly calm voice considering he was being held hostage by a woman with both gun and bomb.

"Yes?" asked the man in tweed and creased pants who'd apparently had the misfortune to have overly religious parents.

"Isn't this usually the sort of thing you handle?"

"I—I'm not certain I can right now, my dear," Aziraphale replied.

"You're not certain you can," sunglasses-guy said incredulously.

Jeannette cleared her throat. Both men ignored her.

"I really don't think I ought to, Crowley."

Sunglasses-guy—Crowley—let out a sigh (that sounded suspiciously like a hiss) and focused his attention on Jeanette, who felt instantly uneasy.

"You realize," he began. "If you set off that bomb you'll kill people—that counts as hurting, I'm sure."

"It's on a timer," Jeanette said, pointing her gun at him. "When I activate it, you'll have twenty seconds to get to the door—" The three other people in the shop lurched to their feet. "I said don't move!"

They froze when she whirled the gun toward them. When everyone went still, she aimed it back at Crowley, who looked entirely nonchalant about the whole thing.

"You'll have 20 seconds to get out and then it'll blow. But I don't want anyone to move until I activate it and say to go."

Crowley was still walking toward her and Jeanette took a few involuntary steps back. "You want me to shoot you?" she asked.

"Sssure," sunglasses-guy hissed. "If it'll make you feel better." Something in the way he said it let her know that immediately afterward she would be feeling lots of pain.

"O-okay," Jeanette faltered, finally swinging the gun at his companion. "You don't care if I shoot _you_, but if you don't stop moving I'll shoot your _friend_!"

* * *

1. Contrary to the movies, it did not hit any one on the head.

* * *

Aziraphale blinked, and Crowley just stared at the woman through those dark shades of his.

"He could handle being shot," the demon groused, but he stopped walking.

The angel stifled an appreciative smile—being discorporated would be yet _another_ inconvenience. He probably ought to have handled the whole matter himself, but he wasn't feeling entirely 'recovered' from the Summoning.

"If you were going to blow yourself up," Crowley said in a reasonable tone that only Aziraphale recognized as a _dangerous_ one, "couldn't you do it when no one was around?"

"I need witnesses," the woman said. "So you can tell Tim I dedicate this to him. I'd have left a note, but when the bomb goes off, the place will probably collapse and he'd never find it and I don't have the key to his place anymore. That pretty much left witnesses to deliver the message since he might have checked his Ansaphone or cell too soon."

"Who's Tim?" the teenager asked.

"He owns this place and he's the one who drove me to do this."

As she said this, Crowley glanced back at Aziraphale and let his glasses slip down so the angel could clearly see him roll his eyes. 'Drove her to this,' his face clearly said. 'What's next? She going to read a tear-stained love note to us? Puh-leaze.'

The angel was impressed that Crowley could be so expressive through a look. It didn't really surprise him that he could understand it, as they'd had millennia to learn to read each other.

As if sensing Crowley wasn't fazed, the saleswoman—Jeanette, her name placard proclaimed—focused on him again. "He kicked me out of his house and gave me my two weeks notice. He's 'letting me go.' I'm living in my car which is about to be repossessed and my dog got hit last night and the veterinarian says he's going to die. I have nothing—no don't say anything!" she yelled as Aziraphale opened his mouth to speak. "There's nothing for me now, not even Buster. Tim's taken all that from me so I'm going to take away his store."

"You sure your dog's going to croak?" Crowley asked and Aziraphale stifled a wince at the phrasing. "If he doesn't, your death will ensure he doesn't have a place to come back to—he'll be as betrayed by you as you were by your boss. Which, by the way, brings me to the point that it's never a good idea to dip your nib in the office ink."

"I have the test results right here!" She pulled a paper from her pocket. "Buster's systems are all shutting down."

Crowley narrowed his eyes. "I'm not looking at it close, but it seems to me it says 'Normal labs. Slight trauma to front paw. Easy recovery.'"

"What?" She looked at it and her mouth dropped open. "That's…not possible."

"Guess maybe you have something to live for, even if it's just a fleabag, huh?"

"I—I still…don't have a house or someone to love—"

"I've gotta big brother," the teenager piped up. "'E set off firecrackers in his ex girl's house. You two migh' get on."

"Still planning on detonating?" the demon asked.

"I…I guess not…but, but I'll be arrested."

"None of us will tell," Crowley said. Aziraphale stifled a smile when the demon added solemnly, "Think of Buster."

"I bloody will report her," the older male human growled.

Crowley sighed and snapped his fingers. Aziraphale resumed breathing so he could sigh in relief. He knew Crowley had been avoiding miracling (1) because he didn't want to do a gratuitous—un-reciprocal—good deed in front of him. Silly Serpent didn't want the angel to get the 'wrong idea' about his nature. Of course, Aziraphale already knew all about Crowley's spark of goodness, no matter what the demon denied.

All of the humans in the room had gone blank. The demon wiped their memories, wished the bomb into the evidence room of a very surprised police department, and made all of the bystanders go merrily on their way. He turned to Jeanette.

"Right, now go home."

"Crowley."

The demon sighed. "And when you get there, have a lovely dream about flowers or puppies or something equally inane."

She nodded and walked out.

"You did really heal her dog…?"

"Yes I did—but I bloody well shouldn't have had to! What is _wrong_ with you, angel?"

"Er." Aziraphale straightened his collar. "Just. Just not feeling quite well."

"Angels don't get sick." Crowley was approaching him wearing a look that, had he been in Serpentine form, would have been predatory.

"I, er, stumbled on some unholy objects. You know. Evil things. Has me a bit under the weather."

"Evil things?" Crowley arched an eyebrow.

"Yes." Technically it _was_ true, since the summoning circles had all been set up as if he were evil and the blood binding the child had used _was_ dark magic.

"Where?"

"Oh, one of those little antique shops," the angel said, stifling his wince. He did so hate to lie.

Crowley eyed him up and down. Aziraphale did not have to try at all to seem ill—he honestly _wasn't_ feeling well. "Getting careless, are you?

"It would seem so," the angel murmured, thinking about Ryan and his feathers.

Crowley huffed. After a moment, he asked brusquely, "Burns heal up?"

Aziraphale's blue eyes were soft. "I'm fine, really. Just a little…off."

"How off? If you're going to be sick in the car, you can forget about a ride to the shop."

"How considerate," Aziraphale said dryly, but the corners of his mouth were turned up. "Did I make a fuss at you that time when you forgot to sober up and you lurched around drunkenly before you lost consciousness and fell on that priceless Babylonian scroll?"

"Yes, actually. You threatened to smite me and then kicked me out."

"Ah." He didn't have anything to say to that. (2)

"So…do I need to take care of anything?" the demon asked, offhand. He was trying to discover if he needed to dispose of any relics, or 'talk' to the owner, no doubt.

"No, no, dear boy. Really, everything's fine."

"All right," Crowley replied, still eyeing him sideways. For two beings that had known each other as long as they had, it was hard to completely pull the wool over one another's eyes. The demon seemed willing—reluctantly—to let it go for the moment. "Tell you what—I'll take you back to the shop now. If you're that set on having one, I'll pick out a nice, practical, easy-to-use computer for you. I can bring it over later and set it up."

"You'd do that?" Aziraphale wasn't exactly _suspicious_, but generally Crowley wasn't so overtly considerate.

"Sure. You roped me into this and I'd rather choose one _without_ your dithering."

"I do not _dither_." A pause. "But thank you, my dear."

"Yes, well." The demon looked uncomfortable. "You'll have to pay me back."

"Of course."

"And you'll owe me one."

"Naturally," the angel replied.

"And maybe you'll even tell me what's going on," Crowley added casually, before strolling out of the shop.

Stifling a sigh, Aziraphale followed his counterpart. The feather incident was his own fault and he ought to take care of it on his own, but naturally Crowley would sense something was wrong. At least he hadn't demanded an answer as yet. Of course, the angel knew the only reason the demon hadn't done so was because Crowley knew him well enough to know that trying to force something out of him just made him all the more stubborn. That didn't mean the demon would give up—he'd try to worm the secret out of him simply because Aziraphale was trying to keep it from him.

Typical Crowley. Though really, the Principality had to admit the thought was slightly comforting. Aziraphale's existence had been complicated by two children barely older than a decade, but some things, at least, remained constant and un-worrying.

* * *

1. Diabolicating? Conjuring? Occulting? The authoress shall stick with miracling as he _is_ of angelic stock.

2. Honestly, Aziraphale had initially thought the scroll had been torn (in reality it was Crowley's collar that had ripped when the Principality hauled him up by it) and he'd been incensed and rather sloshed himself and thus didn't remember much of the incident.


End file.
